Falling
by azzami
Summary: even they, the finest of the fine, could fall into the dirty muds of sin. seven vignettes.
1. Sloth

some very simple, very wispy drabbles about the Seven Trustees of the Architect.

how Monday fell into sin.

* * *

"Sneezer!"

"Yes, milord?"

"What's with that bloody long queue forming outside the Hall? I thought I had cleared yesterday's matters already? It does not stand to reason that such a queue should be former after just _one day. _The Lower House is for keeping bloody dead records! Not live ones - no, they're too troublesome... "As His Lord Monday went off onto one of his rants, Sneezer stood there quietly and patiently.

It would blow over.

He picked at the silly boil that had formed on his nose. It was tiny. He had noticed that in recent times, he had become more... dishevelled. He had attempted to straighten himself in a mirror, but after one or two attempts which the boils simply crept back when he wasn't looking, Sneezer decided that he would rather just let matters take their own course.

He didn't really care, not anymore.

"... Sneezer?"

"Milord!" He leapt back to attention.

Monday stretched. He was sprawled out over a pale yellow lounge; red-golden robes fell in disarray around him. Sneezer remembered, distantly in some corner of his mind, that his Lord Monday used to love wearing sharply-cut tailored Victorian suits. They were often a brilliant red, and often accompanied by a top-hat. His Lord Monday used to keep his long hair tied up neatly in a white bow, back then. When? Back then, long ago. Some other time.

Now his Lord's hair was short and unkempt, though definitely, _most _definitely, his Lord was still as handsome as -

"Sneezer?"

"Milord, I am sorry."

"Ah. No need to be." Monday waved a languid hand. Propping himself up on one arm, he gazed out over the long queues that had somehow, miraculously materialized over the space of one night. Damn. He flopped back down onto the lounge. He didn't feel up to much nowadays, too tired by far and he felt something, something uncomfortable biting at his chest -

It was most definitely not guilt over that silly scrap of paper.

"Call Dusk." His voice, he noticed with a mild surprise, had gotten lower and - more fragile. Raspy. Tired. He sounded like one of those silly lower Denizens who bought sicknesses in an attempt to seem - fashionable. Or maybe, he mused, half-closing his eyes, more sleepy. It would stand to reason. He hadn't felt this lethargic since - since before the Architect went away and he locked up that stupid, cumbersome piece of parchment.

He heard Sneezer murmur a soft "Yes, milord." and back out of the room on soft, hurried footsteps. Hearing Sneezer go, Monday slid lower down onto the lounge. He felt it shudder and twist beneath him, finally settling into the shape of a soft, warm, comfortable bed. He reached out a thin hand, fingers finding and grasping red-yellow-golden covers that weren't there a second before. He has time, for a short nap, before his Dusk shows up.

A short nap.

Monday yawned, a soft polite yawn.

He was tired, Monday was.

* * *

end.


	2. Greed

tuesday's turn. I apologize, this might be abit... it came out kinda... uhm, pear-shaped.

* * *

Tuesday isn't a greedy man.

He isn't, he swears.

He's just... a bit, y'know, _jealous _of the stuff people had, and well, you cannot fault a Denizen of his calibre when he tries to steal take their stuff and make copies of them. In fact, they should be _glad _that the Grim Tuesday had actually deigned to focus his attentions on their paltry designs.

Plagiarising is a form of inventiveness and smartness, more fool the idiots who bleat and whine about "right of inventor" and yadda yadda yadda.

Annoying little lambs.

But what irked Tuesday most was that he could not, no matter how hard he tried - and mark it, when Tuesday says he tried, he really does give it his all - he simply could not come up with something that was entirely his **own**. And that, pissed him off to no end. He could not understand it. It should be easy... Twisting that cherry tree just so, just a bit to reality's angle and maybe adding some blossoms of an entirely new colour or shape...

It, should be _easy._

But it was not.

When he tried to create a new animal, a fusion of a platypus and a bear, the energies used snapped right back at him. He was flung from one end of his workshop to the other where he collapsed and spewed up bright blue blood. His long-suffering Noon very nearly got impaled with a sword when he came rushing in to see what was wrong with his Master.

So Tuesday sat in his chair and thought, for a little while.

The next day, he went out, with his Second Key and trusty Noon, and began his great project.

A world, some tiny little world called Rhiann which consisted of a couple of islands was wiped out within two weeks. It was left barren and empty, with her people running around in it, crying and weeping. A man came, tall and slim with dark good looks, and herded them into a line with a long, thin whip. He took them to a door, and opened it, reassuring them all the way that they would be in a new, better world. They followed him into the black, angry door, like little lambs who didn't know any better.

A mountain in a world with too many syllables in its name disappeared. The tribes which worshipped the mountain as a god of harvest went crazy with grief when they woke up one morning and found out that their mountain disappeared. War was waged between the tribes, despite the fact that no-one, in either tribe could have shifted or destroyed the mountain in the space of one night.

A gigantic pit in Orlud was taken away by Grim Tuesday. He had plans for it.

There were countless other incidents, countless other worlds that were wiped clean.

Grim Tuesday was glad, as he sat in his workshop and looked out over the giant pit. He looked down at the newly-arrived humans, which his Dawn and Dusk had so kindly collected for him. He looked at the gold piles and metal bars, glimmering faintly in the red light from the lanterns. He looked at the ugly demon mask he took from some Secondary Realm. Grim Tuesday twiddled his thumbs.

And he called for his Times.

* * *

end.


End file.
